


Safe in the Night

by songs_of_the_moon



Series: Take Comfort Where You May [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Thorin just needs a hug, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songs_of_the_moon/pseuds/songs_of_the_moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Woken by sounds of distress, Bilbo finds Thorin in the throes of a nightmare. The Hobbit takes it upon himself to discover its cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe in the Night

The chill of the night was unsettling. Bilbo pulled his blanket closer to his chin, unsure of what had woken him. One of the Dwarves was on watch, of course, but he hadn’t sounded an alarm. Bilbo squinted at the indistinct shape across the embers of the dying fire. It looked to be Kili, with Fili drowsing on his shoulder. Or perhaps it was the other way round.

Nor had it been the snoring of his companions which had woken him; Bilbo had long since grown accustomed to the noise and indeed found it almost soothing.

A low groan caught the Hobbit’s attention, barely audible. He sat up a bit, glancing round. Fili or Kili—he had no way of knowing which in the darkness—looked over his shoulder, past Bilbo. His body language spoke of concern but not danger as he turned back to his brother. They murmured between themselves, too softly for Bilbo to make out. One brother made to stand; the other stopped him with a hand on his arm and a shake of his head.

Curious now, Bilbo turned to see what the Dwarf had been looking at. All he found was Thorin, tangled in his own blanket and somehow alone, even with so many others so near. The exiled king made a distressed, incoherent sound and muttered a few words of Khuzdul. The foreign syllables were harsh in Bilbo’s ears, but the pain they carried was unmistakable.

Bilbo stood, realizing now what must have woken him. He approached the sleeping king silently, quiet Hobbit feet drawing not even the attention of the night watch. “M-Master Dwarf?” Bilbo began uncertainly, kneeling. He received no response save more mumbling and an uneasy twitch. “Thorin?” he tried again, a bit bolder, as he gently placed his hand on the other’s shoulder.

No sooner had they made contact did Thorin catch him by the wrist, jerk him forward, and secure both hands round the Hobbit’s thin, fragile neck. His eyes snapped open, but he saw not Bilbo nor his surroundings. He snarled something in Khuzdul, dark and low.

Bilbo tried to say something, anything, but all that escaped him was a thin choking sound. He pried vainly at Thorin’s fingers, knowing he had not the strength to dislodge them. His vision had just begun to grow blurry when Thorin seemed to come back to himself. He dropped the Hobbit with a start and a curse.

“Are you injured? Have I harmed you?” Thorin demanded, sitting up sharply, graceless and quick in his worry.

Bilbo, coughing and rubbing gingerly at his throat, was in no condition to give a proper answer, so he settled for shaking his head. After a moment he felt himself able to speak again and said, “I will live, Master Dwarf.”

Gently—so gently that Bilbo could have resisted, had he a mind to—Thorin pulled Bilbo’s hands back to examine the damage he had wrought. “It will bruise,” he murmured darkly, already seeing in his mind’s eye the clearly defined handprints that would no doubt be visible by morning. The mere thought of it made his stomach turn. “My sincerest apologies, Master Baggins. I am deeply sorry for the injury I have caused you.”

“Apology accepted,” Bilbo returned, voice still rough, “though I would like to know what manner of nightmare can so discomfit one as steady as yourself.” He feared that perhaps he was being too bold in his questioning, but he had always found that discussing his own nightmares helped to dispel them, though he doubted he had near as much as Thorin to make his dreams unpleasant and his sleep a burden rather than a refuge.

“You know not what you ask.” Thorin shook his head ruefully. He pulled his legs in until they were crossed, a tangled mess of blanket between his knees.

“Since I do not know,” Bilbo countered, “then tell me, so that I may.” He tried not to flinch when Thorin gently passed his fingertips over his throat; the guilt that flashed in the Dwarf’s eyes told him he had failed.

Thorin sighed heavily, as though the weight of the prospect was slowly crushing him. “I fear you will regret your insistence,” he muttered. He lifted his head to meet Bilbo’s steady gaze with his own.

And then he began to speak.

He spoke of battles and blood and death. He spoke of terrible screaming and the acrid smell of smoke. He described watching warriors fall around him, helpless to go to their aid when it was all he could do to defend himself. He told of the sickening crack of his own bones breaking and the knowledge that he was on death’s door and the horrible (faint but still all too strong) hope that he would cross that threshold, if only to escape the terrific weariness that had settled over him.

Bilbo, heart in his throat, feared that there was more to the king’s distress.

Thorin proved him right as he whispered of the guilt that threatened to consume him, and the ghosts that visited him in his dreams, cursing and pleading in turn. He fell silent then, watching the Hobbit for his reaction. His own face he had tried to keep blank, but his eyes had betrayed him, displaying for all and sundry the pain that tightened round his chest and made difficult his breathing.

“It is no wonder, then,” Bilbo murmured, tone unsteady, “that your sleep is so disturbed.” He reached out hesitantly, gentle fingers brushing a lock of hair from Thorin’s brow. “If there is aught that I can do, do not hesitate to ask it of me.”

Thorin crumbled in the face of Bilbo’s kindness. He had done all that he could to avoid showing weakness in front of his men—they needed a strong leader, especially the younger ones—and to have his vulnerability accepted rather than mocked or looked away from uneasily was a surprise, though not an unwelcome one.

“If you would,” he whispered with hitching voice, “I would like…for you to stay with me a while.”

“Of course.” The Hobbit slipped his small hand into one of Thorin’s own, then glanced up to meet his gaze, as though seeking permission. His response was to brush his thumb across Bilbo’s wrist. He marveled silently at the softness of his skin, clearly unused to hard labor and long days in the sun. It was a far cry from Thorin’s own, though his companion seemed to find no fault with it.

They sat like that for a long while, silent in the chill darkness.

Abruptly, Thorin spoke, startling Bilbo. “The hour grows ever later, and we shall need our rest tomorrow.” Bilbo nodded but remained silent. “I—” Thorin examined their clasped hands, anything to avoid the other’s eyes. “I feel that I could sleep soundly, were you to remain by my side.” He dared not look up, fearful of what he expected to find.

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmured, “Thorin, look at me.” Reluctantly, the king obeyed, only to find an unreadable expression on the Hobbit’s face. “I will gladly stay with you for as long as you wish.” The knot in Thorin’s stomach dissolved.

“If you prefer, you may fetch your bedroll, but would it not be easier to simply…?” Thorin allowed the question to trail off as he held open his blanket in invitation.

Bilbo smiled softly and slipped in beside him, small and cold at his side. Unthinking, Thorin wrapped his arms round him, pulling him into the warmth of his body. Bilbo tensed for a moment and Thorin feared he’d misread the situation. But the Hobbit quickly relaxed and curled even closer. Thorin released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, ruffling Bilbo’s soft cap of curls.

“Good night, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain,” Bilbo murmured. “May your dreams be filled with light.” He settled against Thorin’s side, the beat of his heart steady and reassuring under his hand.

“And good night to you, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin replied. On a whim, he brushed his lips against the Hobbit’s brow. Bilbo pulled away, and Thorin’s heart sank. With a faint smile, Bilbo leaned in and found Thorin’s mouth with his own. He pulled away all too quickly, still wearing his inscrutable smile.

It was met with a smirk of Thorin’s own. “Had I know how warmly the idea was to be received, I would have invited you into my bed long ago,” he murmured, pulling Bilbo in for another kiss.

They lay together in the darkness, exchanging kisses both desperate and sweet for longer than either realized and far shorter than either liked. “We should sleep,” Bilbo whispered breathlessly against Thorin’s mouth.

“We should,” Thorin agreed, and stole another kiss.

Bilbo pulled away with a quiet laugh, eyes full of mirth. “You are incorrigible,” he accused.

“So I have been told.”

They watched each other through the darkness, both more content than they had been in far too long. “Good night, Thorin.” Bilbo pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. “And this time I mean it.”

“Then I suppose I must take you at your word.” Thorin pulled Bilbo against his chest, smiling faintly when he curled in close. “Good night, my little thief.”

And so they slept, safe—from dangers both physical and of the mind—in one another’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> This had been rolling around in my head ever since I saw the Jackson movie. I finally got around to putting it down, and it somehow ended up rather longer than I had anticipated. 
> 
> I might get around to writing a smutty sequel, but I wouldn't hold my breath.


End file.
